


The Van Gogh Killer

by Calacious



Category: Sons of Anarchy
Genre: Community: hc_bingo, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pool & Billiards, Rope Bondage, Serial Killers, Whipping, sodomy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-14
Updated: 2013-02-04
Packaged: 2017-11-25 11:12:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/638289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calacious/pseuds/Calacious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Juice goes out on what should be a simple repo job, and things do not go as planned. Not by a long shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Whipped

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the hurt/comfort bingo square - whipping/flogging. This is pre-slash, the whipping is not part of an act of bdsm.

Juice hears the whistle of the whip well before he feels the sting of it. He bites down on the inside of his lip and clings tightly to the ropes that are wrapped around his wrists, securing him to the pool table. 

The taste of blood – salty and tangy – grounds him, and Juice focuses on that, rather than the feel of the whip as it bites into his flesh and cuts through his skin. He was told to count the falls of the whip, but he can’t because if he stops biting his lip, he’s going to scream, and he’ll be damned if he’s gonna give the sick bastard the pleasure of hearing him scream.

Juice keeps count in his head, prays that someone – anyone – will save him before he passes out. But the whipping doesn’t stop, and no one’s walking in through the cellar door to make it stop. He loses track (unable to keep up with the man who seems hell bent on breaking him) sometime after the twentieth strike, and then he zones out. 

His back’s on fire, and he can no longer feel his fingers – they’re bone white, and he loses his grip on the rope, sags a little as his knees buckle. The rope burns into his wrists and Juice concentrates on that new sensation. He couldn’t cry out now if he wanted to, every single fiber of his being is focused on simply breathing, and not losing consciousness, because he’s terrified of what will happen to him once that happens.

The man, Archibald Green, if the paperwork is to be believed, told him what would happen if he passed out – when he passed out. 

It’s inevitable. Juice knows that. 

He doesn’t want to be unconscious, and at the mercy of Archibald who will, “…exorcise, your twisted, demonic perversions, just like I done with the others, like what my daddy done for me.”

Juice focuses his eyes on the head spot. He knows that someone has actually played pool on the table – the felt is threadbare in places, and the head spot is faded. 

The chance of rescue is slim to none, because no one knows where he is. He’d gone to repo the car on his own, leaving a brief message on Clay’s cell, checking in with the man because that was the closest the garage had to something resembling a dispatch, and Clay was on ‘dispatch’ duty today. 

How was Juice supposed to know that the owner of the car he’d been assigned to repo was a sick bastard who got his jollies off of nabbing people off of the street and holding them captive in his cellar, and whipping them? And worse…

The man had taken Juice by surprise, hadn’t said a word when Juice said that he was there for the car. Archibald had watched as Juice worked to secure the car to his rig, and it had made the hairs on the back of Juice’s neck stand up. 

It was as he was knelt down beside the front tire of the car that it happened, and it happened so quickly that Juice doesn’t even really understand what it was. One second Juice was working a chain around the tire, and the next, he was bent over a pool table. He’d been stripped down to his boxers, and a thick rope was being wrapped around his wrist. The other wrist had already been secured.

His head was aching, and when he attempted to ask Archibald what was going on, the back of his skull had been struck with a pool cue, causing him to see stars. When Juice cursed, he was once again struck with the pool cue and told to shut up, and then his day took a bizarre turn when Archibald produced a whip out of some side compartment in the pool table. 

Juice knew that, if he survived this, he wouldn’t ever forget the man’s next words. The way they had been calmly delivered as Archibald had stroked the back of his neck almost tenderly.

“The rules of the game are simple,” Archibald’s voice was low and it made Juice’s skin run cold. “Rule one: Don’t get caught. You were going to take my car, and I couldn’t allow that, not until I got rid of Ricardo. He was such a sweet man – screamed real loud, but always did as I asked, after he was broken. Rule two: A good whipping will keep the devil away. And we don’t want the devil joining us, do we?” 

Juice could feel Archibald’s lips at the back of his neck, and he shook his head. 

“Tell me your name.”

When Juice didn’t immediately answer his captor, the pool cue came crashing down on his lower back, sending a shot of pain up along his spine. 

“Juan,” he said, “my name’s Juan. Look, mister, I won’t take your car, just let me go, okay?”

“Not until after the devil’s been whipped out of you, or, if you’d prefer, we could exorcise your demons with the pool cue.” Archibald’s voice had been filled with a sick sort of glee that had made Juice’s stomach twist.

Juice swallowed and shook his head, opting for what he felt must certainly be the lesser of two evils – the whip.

Now, however, as the whip whistles through the air once more and he feels it slice his skin open, Juice wonders if the pool cue would’ve been the better bet. He just wants it to stop, for Archibald and the car to be a horrible nightmare. Juice isn’t even aware that he’s speaking his thoughts aloud until his lips brush against the felt of the pool table, and then it feels like he’s drunk. His words come out slurred and broken. 

“Please stop…” he’s repeating the words over and over again, and Juice can feel them passing over his bloodied lips, but he can’t really hear them, and he doubts that Archibald, can hear them either, because the man doesn’t stop whipping him. 

Archibald isn’t even saying anything, but he’s grunting and panting, and Juice doesn’t even want to know what it is that’s pressing up against his backside, burrowing into his ass cheeks. He’s grateful that he still has his boxers on. 

Juice starts seeing double – the head spot jumps and jitters – before the edges of his vision begin to grow dim and a hazy darkness threatens to overtake his senses. He no longer feels the nip of the whip as it connects with his back, but he can still hear the telltale whistle of it before it hits him. He knows that the whip, even if he can no longer feel it, will slash into his skin within the space of a single heartbeat. 

“Sorry…” is the last word that passes through his lips before Juice loses consciousness and his body goes limp. 

Juice isn’t apologizing to the man whipping him, but rather to Clay, the garage, the guys, for somehow fucking up what should have been an easy task, and getting himself whipped, raped, killed and stuffed into the trunk of an old, beaten-up Ford.


	2. The Body in the Trunk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tig makes an unsettling discovery when he and the others go looking for Juice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all of the support. :-)
> 
> The next five chapters will feature the perspectives of each of Juice's 'rescuers'. I wasn't sure how to break all of this up, and felt that it was lacking in the area of comfort, so I ended up adding each of these character perspectives after I had written the body of the story. I hope that it ends up making sense.

Tig takes a look at the rig, at the car that's almost attached to it, and gets an uneasy feeling. He scans the surrounding neighborhood for Juice and his feeling of uneasiness increases when he doesn't see the kid. A foul smell invades his senses and he pops the trunk, reels back - hand covering his mouth and nose - and fear grabs him by the spine. 

 

"Uh, guys," Tig hollers, and he's suddenly glad that Jax insisted that the five of them come to find Juice. Something about the kid not being in his right mind.

 

He looks away from the rotting, mutilated body in the trunk and closes his eyes. The corpse bears a distinct resemblance to Juice, except for the hair and the lack of Juice's distinct tattoos. 

It also reminds him of something that he’s seen in the local papers and on the news – the work of a serial killer nicknamed, The Van Gogh Killer. The man takes the ear off of those he’s raped and killed, and the ears have never been recovered. It makes Tig shiver, and he reaches a hand up to touch his own ear, just to make sure that it’s still there.

 

The body's been violated, there's no other way to put it, and the skin looks like it's been flayed off. Tig can see the white of bone on the body's wrists where something sliced through them, and there's an ear missing. It's enough to make him sick. 

 

"What the ..." Jax's voice trails off and he looks away. His jaw clenches and he shares a look of disgust with Tig.

 

Chibs peers into the trunk and curses. He looks away and Tig wonders what's going through the man's mind when he reaches over to close the trunk as Happy and Clay approach.

 

"What is it?" Happy tries to peer around Chibs, but he refuses to budge. 

 

"Dead body," Chibs says, "looks like Juice walked into the middle of something."

 

"Ain't he always walking into the middle of something he shouldn't be?" Happy snakes his head and laughs. 

 

Tig doesn't understand his sudden urge to hit Happy. And, when he pictures the unfortunate corpse in the trunk, all he can see is Juice, carved up and barely recognizable and it makes his stomach churn.

 

"Where do you think he went?" Clay asks. 

 

He, unlike Happy, is not making an attempt to look into the trunk. Tig believes it's for the best that Clay not see what's been done to the dead man. He doesn't know what's been going on with his friend lately, but Clay's been bringing Juice's name up a lot in conversation and it seems to Tig like he's almost smitten with the younger man. 

 

He can't really blame Clay for the interest. Juice isn't half bad to look at and the kid's got an almost Marilyn Monroe kind of innocence and vulnerability going on for him. What's not attractive about that? 

 

Happy manages to get a peek into the trunk, and Tig is irritated when the man merely frowns and nods and then lets Chibs slam the trunk shut again. There's an almost feral look in Happy's eyes, though, and that's something that Tig finds reassuring. 

 

Tig knows that once Chibs turns his back, Happy’s going to get himself another look at the body in the trunk, and he’s not sure if he should be offended or disgusted or just accepting of that. It’s more than curiosity though. It’s about justice, something that Happy is, well, more than happy to mete out. 

 

"Let's check the house," Tig says. 

 

He’s looking at his feet, anywhere but at the faces of the men he’s come to think of as brothers - men who’ve grown closer to him than any friend ever could. He doesn't even know why he says it, doesn't understand the sense of urgency that's churning in his gut, or how he knows that that's where they'll find Juice and their modern day Jack-the-Ripper. He just hopes it's not too late for Juice.


	3. The Appearance of Strength

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jax's perspective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again, for those who are encouraging me. :-) It is greatly appreciated.

Jax doesn’t know why he insists that all five of them go to round up Juice. Part of him is worried that Juice is suicidal again after everything that’s been happening, that he’s not yet got his head on right. 

But, if that was his only worry, then he’d just take Chibs along, not Happy, Tig, and, reluctantly, Clay. He wonders why his stepfather asked to come along, but doesn’t openly question it. For now, he’s just going to watch the man, see what he’s up to. 

The body in the trunk of the car that Juice was supposed to pick up is not what he’d been expecting to see, and it throws Jax for a loop. Now, instead of worrying that Juice has tried to off himself, he’s got a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that whatever had been done to the poor sucker stuffed in the trunk of an old, beat-up Ford is being done to Juice.

“Yeah, let’s go check out the house,” Jax says, Tig’s words pulling him out of imagining Juice’s ear being torn or cut off. 

Before he can give any orders, Tig’s heading into the house, and the rest of them are following. Happy takes a second look at the damaged body in the trunk before shutting the lid with a final resounding clang that echoes in a neighborhood better suited to the idealistic Brady’s than the horrors of Freddy Krueger. 

Oak Street, Jax absentmindedly reads the sign on the corner of the street, not Elm. The waning daylight does little to counter the uneasiness that he’s feeling. Images of Juice being gutted by some knife-wielding animal not fit to call itself a human, roll through his mind, and then he’s thinking of Opie’s last few minutes, and he shoulders past Happy. Tig and Chibs are practically on each other’s heels, and he’s right behind them. The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

“Juice!” he calls out, and he doesn’t care if the person who owns the house, Archibald Green, if the paperwork is accurate, hears. 

“Juice, where are you?” Jax hopes that they’re not too late, that Juice is still in one piece, unlike the poor schmuck who is rotting in the small, claustrophobic space of a medium-sized trunk. 

When his question is met with no answer, Jax’s heart drops, but he squares his shoulders and pushes his fears for his brother aside. He needs to be strong, especially when Clay is watching him. He doesn’t need the man questioning his ability to be a leader.


	4. What Wakens the Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chibs' perspective. Juice is found.

Chibs knew that something was wrong the minute he learned that Juice wasn’t back from a simple repo job. He just didn’t know how wrong, until he saw the body. A young man, not dissimilar in stature and features from Juice, dead. And not just dead, but tortured. The way the man’s mouth is twisted, a mask of pain frozen in rigor mortis, is disturbing on a level that Chibs hadn’t thought possible.

He doesn’t want to think about it, but his mind conjures up disjointed images of what’s happening to Juice. There’s no doubt in his mind that the sick fucker who’d done this to the man in the trunk, is hurting Juice. 

Clothes missing, fingers bloated, eyes bloodshot - black lines crisscrossing the dulled orbs - skin cut up and torn, bluish grey in color . . . he’s been dead for a while, and Chibs wonders how the neighbors haven’t smelled the rot. 

Death has a very distinctive scent - sickeningly sweet and unpleasant. It has a tendency to cloy and stick in the nostrils for a long time afterwards. It’s an odor, that, once you’re familiar with it, you’ll never forget. 

He wants Juice to be okay, to have gotten away from the monster capable of doing something like this, but he knows better than that. He knows that Juice is probably stuck down in the man’s cellar, being subjected to torture that will break and ruin him, provided that they’ve arrived in time to ‘save’ him. 

Though, if he’s going to be perfectly honest with himself, Chibs thinks that it might be better if they’re too late to for ‘saving’ Juice in the classic sense of the word. Because living with that kind of trauma won’t be easy. He hates himself for even thinking it, but he doesn’t know if Juice can survive this. The kid almost didn’t survive the past year, and that was nothing compared to what he’s no doubt been through in a short space of seven or eight hours. 

Chibs keeps in step with Tig, because he doesn’t know what Tig will do if they find Juice dead - body battered, bruised, mangled. Hell, he doesn’t know what he’ll do if that’s the case. 

“He’s not in here,” Chibs says, his voice sounds hollow, empty. 

A small part of him is relieved that Juice isn’t there, but then he follows Tig’s gaze toward a wooden door, located in the hallway just off the kitchen. There’s something about the door, a dark, heavy oak, which makes his skin crawl. The whole house makes him uneasy - black curtains draped over the windows make the place swim in shadows, like ghosts, and the decor looks like it’s been taken from a movie set in the fifties. 

The place smells like mold and bleach, and he sneezes. His head starts to ache, and he reluctantly follows Tig to the door, which sticks at first, but then gives when Tig pulls on it with all his might. The man falls back against him, and another scent assaults Chibs, and threatens to bowl him over - sweat and blood and fear. 

There’s light at the bottom of the rickety looking stairs, making this the scene of one of his worst nightmares, a perfect setting for a horror movie in which the hapless innocent ends up dead. His stomach twists, and he has to take the stairs two at a time to catch up with Tig who didn’t hesitate, but rushed headlong into what could possibly be a dangerous situation. 

“Wait up, Tig,” Chibs hisses, and that’s when the sounds, distorted by the brick walls of the musty-smelling cellar, reach his ears, and his heart stutters in his chest. Grunting, moaning, panting. They make him stick to his stomach, but Tig is still moving, leading the way, and Chibs can feel the others pressing forward behind him. 

He isn’t prepared, though he thought he was, for what he sees before Tig steadies his gun and pulls the trigger, once, and then twice. The sound of the gun’s retort reverberates in the cellar, buries itself deep into the marrow of his bones.

Juice is stretched out, spread eagled, over a pool table, his legs dangling, feet barely touching the cement floor. His head’s bent at an odd angle, but Chibs doesn’t think Juice’s neck is broken. His boxers are lying discarded, pooled at his feet. And there’s a fucking pool cue sticking out of his ass, it’s not far enough inside of him to kill him, but it almost makes Chibs lose his lunch. 

He isn’t even aware that his feet are moving until he’s beside Juice. Chibs kicks the man who’d hurt his brother and ignores the man’s pleas for forgiveness and mercy as Happy pulls him away. 

Chibs pulls the pool cue out of his brother and inspects the damage. 

Juice’s back is a mass of bloody cuts and welts and he’s bleeding from his ass, but the tears to his anus look superficial. Chibs’ hands are shaky as he pulls Juice’s boxers back into place. There’s no evidence of rape - no telltale bruising or semen on this inside of his thighs - and Chibs thinks that’s a very small mercy. What’s happened is enough to give him nightmares for a very long time, let alone Juice.

Chibs places his fingers against Juice’s neck, even though he can see that the kid is still breathing - his bloodied back is rising and falling with each breath that he takes. The pulse is rapid beneath his fingertips and Chibs lets out a sigh of relief. 

“Shit,” Tig says, and Juice’s eyelids flutter, his eyes open and widen with panic. 

Chibs marvels that Tig’s voice, rather than the gunshots, is what wakes Juice.


	5. Never Let Your Guard Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy wants Juice to understand that what happened to him is unacceptable, that he can't let his guard down like he did; he's never been very good with words, though. Juice, for his part, understands that he screwed up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure how this split perspective works out. This one was a bit tricky.

Happy needs to get another look at the body, so that he can file everything that he sees away for future use. The superficial cuts on the dead man’s cheeks; the whip marks that litter the back; the palm marks that line the back of the thighs; the broken wrists and fingers; the severed ear which is no doubt a trophy for the man who killed him; the rope burns; distended stomach; bruises, shaped like fingers, that ring the neck; and the look of abject horror on the dead man’s face.  
  
He doesn’t know what state Juice will be in when they find him, and wonders how the younger man let himself get caught in the first place. Juice has always been far too innocent and easygoing for his own good, and needs to be more aware of his surroundings. If Juice survived this, Happy’s going to make sure that the younger man never makes this kind of mistake again.  
  
Happy’s angry when they find Juice. The kid should not be draped over a pool table, like a fucking cunt. He shouldn’t be bleeding and broken, fucked with a pool cue.  
  
Happy pulls the bastard who hurt his brother away, relishes in the man’s pained exclamations. It’s not even half of what the man deserves for what he’s done to Juice, but he’ll learn. For now, though, Happy shuts him up with a piece of duct tape. 

xxSoAxx

“Shit.”  
  
The harshly spoken word startles Juice awake, and he groans, pulls on the ropes at his wrists, wonders when he started to become delusional, because it sounds like the word came from Tig, not the crazy man. _Archibald Green,_ he reminds himself, and he shudders.  
  
His back is aflame, and he feels sick to his stomach. His legs don’t seem to want to support him, and he flinches when a shadowy shape crosses his line of vision.  
  
“Don’t . . . no more . . . please,” Juice manages to push the words out past lips crusted, and chapped with dried blood.  
  
“Easy, Juice. Don’t try to move, okay?”  
  
The voice isn’t Archibald’s, but Chibs’, and Juice is dizzy with relief, because, against all odds, he’s been found. Juice opens his mouth to answer, but all that comes out is a sob, and then, unbidden, tears start to fall.  
  
“Sh, it’s okay, Juice. Don’t worry; we’re gonna get you outta here.”  Juice knows that it’s Jax – recognizes the president’s voice – but his body isn’t quite on par with the logic in his head.  
  
A hand lands on his shoulder and Juice flinches. His head jerks up, and he steels himself for a strike from the pool cue.  But the expected blow never comes, and Juice wonders what Archibald has planned for him next.  
  
Juice opens his mouth to say something, but he clamps it shut tight when the only sound that comes out is a moan.  
  
“Don’t try to talk right now,” Tig says.  
  
 _Couldn’t if I wanted to,_ Juice thinks uncharitably. He knows that Tig and the others are only trying to help him, but doesn’t like feeling so helpless.  
  
When fingers graze the back of his neck, and then rest there and squeeze, Juice stops breathing, and he struggles to free himself. Convinced that he’s hallucinating, that none of the guys are actually there to rescue him, but that he’s still at the mercy of the sick psycho, Archibald, Juice fights against the ropes and hands that bind him.  
  
“Juice, stop before you hurt yourself. Guys, we need to get him out of these ropes, now.”  
  
Clay’s voice breaks through his panic, and Juice just lets his body go limp beneath the hands and the ropes, the fingers which are now massaging the back of his neck.  
  
“Clay?” Juice breathes out, and though there’s barely sound to accompany his spoken word, it’s answered with a gentle squeeze, fingers lightly pressing against his neck.  
  
“Yeah, Juice.” Clay’s fingers play along the back of Juice’s neck, calming him. “I’m here.”  
  
Juice tries to speak, but the words get stuck in his throat. He swallows, and tries again, “H…how?”  
  
“Got your message; Happy checked the log when you didn’t come back,” Clay’s voice is low, soothing.  
  
“You shouldn’t’ve come alone.” Happy’s voice is cold, matter-of-fact, and it makes Juice feel worse than he already does.  
  
“I know, I’m sorry.” The words spill from his lips like a confession.  
  
Juice tries to wrench away from the table, but his wrists are still bound, Jax’s hand is still on his shoulder, and Clay’s fingers are still gently massaging his neck. He doesn’t get very far, and the movement, slight as it is, only serves to cause his back to spasm.  
  
It feels like a million fire ants have been buried beneath his skin and are trying to tunnel their way out of him. It feels like Happy took one of his special knifes to him and flayed the skin from his back, one small square at a time. It feels like electricity is coursing along his spine.  
  
Unfortunately, electrocution is something that Juice is intimately familiar with, having accidentally electrocuted himself when he’d attempted to splice some wires together – he’d only been thirteen at the time, hadn’t thought to check if the wires were live or not, and had ended up in the hospital, trying to remember his name.  His mom had, honest-to-god, almost killed him for, ‘scaring,’ her, ‘half to death.’  
  
And now he has another stupid mistake to add to his list of stupid-assed mistakes that his life is a series of. Getting taken in broad daylight and then whipped by a psycho is the worst one yet.  
  
“Sorry,” Juice repeats, when he can find his voice again.  
  
“Sh, Juice, it’s okay.” Clay leans down so that Juice can see his eyes. “This is not your fault.”  
  
Juice wants to believe him, but he knows, deep down, that Clay is wrong. It _is_ his fault. A man like Archibald should never have been able to take him unawares.  
  
“Happy, man, you’re not helping matters,” Tig says.  
  
“Fine, I’ll go take care of the other little problem that we have,” Happy says. “Make sure it really is gone.”  
  
Juice shivers, and blinks. Clay’s blue eyes are still there, in front of him, when he opens his eyes. He isn’t sure how to read them, but he’s glad that Clay isn’t looking at him with pity or judgment.

xxSoAxx

Happy knew that he was merely stating the obvious, even before the words left his mouth, and that Juice won’t really understand what it was that he was saying, but he said it anyway, if for no other reason than that he needs to say it. He needs Juice to know that this kind of ruthlessness won’t be tolerated – that he can’t put himself at risk like that.  
  
Juice sounds like a little kid, his words coming out stilted and slurred, when he apologizes.  
  
He sounds frightened, and it makes Happy uncomfortable. Jax has a hand on Juice’s shoulder - one of the only places not cut up on the kid’s back. Tig’s positioned at one of Juice’s wrists, and Chibs’s at the other. Clay’s right up in the kid’s space, fingers on the back of Juice’s neck, massaging, trying to keep the kid calm, but Juice tries to jerk away, and Happy feels out of place. Wishes that he was somewhere else.  
  
Happy has no comfort to offer, and thinks that Juice is partly to blame for what’s happened, because the kid is always too damn trusting.

  
When Juice apologizes a second time, Happy can’t help but think that Juice should be sorry.  
  
  
Happy snorts when Clay tells the kid that it wasn’t his fault. He ignores the glare that Chibs sends him, and shrugs. The kid needs to take some of the blame for letting his guard down. You can’t be in their line of work for that long and not be on guard, it’s just plain stupid.

  
Happy feels out of place when Tig, of all people, chastises him. He should’ve been able to count on Tig understanding what it was that he was trying to communicate to Juice.

 

His skin itches, and he glances over at the aptly nicknamed, Van Gogh Killer. The man looks like an animal – cowering, eyes wide with terror.

  
  
“Fine, I’ll go take care of the other little problem that we have,” Happy says, making sure that Mr. Van fucking Gogh understands that he’s talking about him. “Make sure it really is gone.” Happy smiles when the man pales.

  
He has nothing else to offer Juice. He’s not good at giving comfort, but he will give his brother what he can - assurance that the bastard who hurt him suffered in death.


	6. Necessary Measures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy takes care of Archibald Green. He's quick and efficient.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Though I'm not opposed to writing gratuitous violence and graphic depictions of torture, etc., this chapter does not include much by way of that. I contemplated going back and adding some of that, but, in the end, I decided to go with what I had initially.

Happy hauls the man to his feet, shoves him up the stairs, and smiles when the man’s eyes flash fear. The sounds that the man makes beneath the duct tape are music to his ears, and when the man’s leg buckles, unable to support him because of the gunshot wound, Happy drags him up the remaining steps.

He contemplates the living room, but it’s too open and he wants something easier to clean up. The man’s eyes widen comically, and he renews his efforts to speak through the duct tape when they pass the bedroom. Happy laughs and pushes the man onward.

The bathroom is perfect. Pristine, white. It reeks of bleach. The light is harsh, blinding, and Happy can tell that Mr. Green was a very fastidious man.

Happy shoves and the man falls into the tub, hits his head on the edge.

“You like to play sick games, don’t you?” Happy says knowingly, and the man shakes his head. He’s sweating profusely, and pales when Happy smiles at him.

Happy rips the duct tape off and listens to the man’s protests, nods like he almost believes him, but says nothing. He draws out one of his favorite knives and watches the way that it catches the light. It’s a thing of beauty. Sharp and sure, it will do the trick.

“We were just role-playing,” the man stutters.

Happy smiles at him, and licks his lips. He’s crouched in front of the tub, eye-level with the man.

“See, that there’s a lie,” Happy says, and he flicks the knife across his thumb, testing its sharpness. A bead of blood pools on his thumb and he sucks it off - the coppery taste is a welcome one.

“No,” the man tries to scramble away from Happy, but Happy catches him by the front of his shirt and pulls him closer, touches the edge of his blade to the back of the man’s ear. “He wanted me to do it. Begged me.” The man’s eyes are wild and wide and Happy thinks that the man might actually believe what he’s saying.

“Tell me what really happened,” Happy says, and the knife bites into the back of the man’s ear, causing the man to yelp.

“I...I asked for a repo, from, from that, that garage, knew that they’d send the one I wanted.” The man’s voice is a frenetic whisper, his eyes unfocused, and Happy pulls back a little.

“Been watching him for weeks,” the man says, and he looks into Happy’s eyes, and smiles. “He’s so sweet looking, you know? Like Ricardo. I knew he’d be the right replacement. Tender and sweet and I’m sure that, if he’d only open himself to me, that he could scream real prettily too.”

“So, you called for a repo on your own car, hoping that the shop would send Juice?” Happy asks.

This man is certifiably crazy, Happy thinks, and he wonders how many other men he’s killed, if he’s some kind of serial killer or something.

“He said his name was Juan,” the man sounds cross, and his mouth twists in anger. “I knew that they’d send him to me, because I willed it to happen.”

Happy blinks at the man and shakes his head. “You’re a sick man,” Happy says, and he knows a lot of sick, messed up individuals, but this man takes the cake. Suddenly, he’s a lot more forgiving of Juice.

“If they hadn’t brought him to me, I would have taken him anyway,” the man says, “I know where he lives. He’s meant to be mine, and you can’t stop it from happening.”

The man surges forward, in spite of his injured arm and leg, and Happy doesn’t know whether to feel pity or disgust for the deranged man. He almost feels like he’s letting Juice and the others down when he slits the man’s throat and lets him bleed out in the tub, but he knows that no amount of torture is going to make the man regret what he’s done. If anything, it might be a turn on to the man, and that’s not something that Happy wants. He’s not interested in giving the sick fuck any pleasure whatsoever.

It’s not at all what he had planned, but he watches the man’s eyes dim as the life leaves him, and feels satisfaction knowing that he’s, not only gained justice for Juice, but also done the world a service, because he doubts that the man would have stopped at Juice had he been able to finish what he’d started.

Clean up isn’t that difficult, and he makes quick work of it, stuffs the man’s body in with Ricardo’s and pulls the tow truck off to a side street where Juice won’t be able to see it when the guys bring him out. He’ll return once they’ve gotten Juice home, and finish cleaning up, making sure that nothing will get traced back to the garage or the club.


	7. Loosening of the Ropes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Happy deals with Archibald, the others struggle to free Juice from the ropes that bind him.

“What the fuck’s taking so long?” Jax’s fingers dig into Juice’s shoulder and Juice sees stars, but he bites the inside of his lip, like he did when he was being whipped, and he breathes in and out through his nose, willing the pain to subside.

“The goddamn rope’s sliced into his wrists,” Tig says, and Juice feels a tug on his left hand side.

He can’t feel his fingers or his hands at all. He wonders if they’re still attached to him.

Jax releases the hold he has on Juice’s shoulder. “Shit.”

“Yeah.” Chibs moves Juice’s other hand, and he suddenly feels like he’s a puppet on a string, and his friends are the puppeteers.

“How’re we gonna get him out of these?” Tig doesn’t sound very confident, and Juice’s heart hammers against his ribcage with the irrational thought that he’s going to be stuck in the sicko’s cellar forever.

“Juice, you okay?” Clay’s fingers ground him, and Juice nods, even though he isn’t okay – not by a longshot.

“Just get me out of here.”

Juice’s breath hitches when the ropes shift and his arms are pulled further apart, stretching his shoulders and his back. And wounds that had already begun to scab over are reopened. This time, biting his lip doesn’t work and he gasps.

“Careful,” Clay hisses.

“We’re bein’ as careful as we can,” Chibs says, “but we’ve got to get these ropes off as quickly as we can. I don’t think slow and easy’s the way, not with this.”

“You thinking, quick, like a Band-Aid?” Tig asks.

“Yeah,” Chibs says, and Juice closes his eyes and wishes that he could disappear, or zone out, until it’s all over.

“Juice, you okay with that? Jackie, can you help Clay keep him still?”

Jax’s hands are back on Juice’s shoulders, and Juice hasn’t yet answered Chibs’ question. He shakes his head, knowing, even as he does it, that he’s being weak and that the guys will never let him live it down, but it feels like his skin’s been stripped off of his back, and it fucking hurts. He’s never hurt this much; this is well beyond the pain he felt when he’d been electrocuted.

“Juice, listen to me,” Clay says, and Juice can feel the man’s breath, hot on his ear as the older man’s lips brush against his earlobe. “You’re going to be okay. We’re going to get you out of here, just lie still, okay? Lie still and let us do all of the work…”

Clay’s voice becomes a steady drone, and it lulls Juice, even as the others work to free him. He listens as Clay talks to him about nothing and everything. Juice doesn’t pay attention to the words, which have ceased to have meaning when pitted against the excruciating pain he’s in. Instead, he follows the rhythm of the words, the way that Clay’s voice undulates – like that of a snake charmer – and the way that the man’s voice resonates through him. He feels like he’s floating, and he hasn’t even had any drugs.

“Yes!” Tig’s shout of triumph breaks through Clay’s litany of words, and Juice knows that his hands have been freed.

He can’t really feel them right now, and, given how his back feels, he thinks that’s a blessing. His legs are rubbery, unable to support his weight. He knows that Jax, Clay, Tig and Chibs are keeping him upright, still bent over the pool table like some sweet butt begging to be fucked. It isn’t exactly comfortable, but it beats the alternative – falling flat on his face.

“Easy now, there’s no telling how long he’s been bound here,” Chibs cautions, “it’ll take a while for the circulation to come back to his limbs, and it’s going to hurt.”

“You don’t think he’s been down here this whole time?” Tig asks, and his voice sounds oddly horrified at the thought.

Juice has no idea how much time has passed. It feels like he’s only been there for a few minutes, and yet, it feels like years have passed since he fell into his own personal Hell. He’s almost afraid to know the truth.

“Judging by the damage to his back, and the fact that the shallower cuts have already started to scab over…” Chibs sighs, “and everything else...”

Juice’s view starts to tilt, making him dizzy as he’s drawn upright – Tig on one side of him, Chibs on the other, Clay and Jax behind him. His shoulders protest the movement, as does his back, and he sucks in a pained breath.

“Easy,” Clay’s mouth is against his ear, the word quietly spoken.

“You’re doing good, Juice,” Chibs says.

Juice doesn’t have the energy to respond. He concentrates on breathing through the pain as his hands and feet start to regain feeling – pins and needles doesn’t even begin to describe the agony he’s in, but that pain pales considerably when compared to the raw tenderness of his back.

Chibs places a hand on Juice’s hip, helping to steady him. “Just gotta make it up the stairs, and then we’ll be home free.”

“Yeah,” Juice says.

His legs are shaky at best, and Juice can’t really aid his brothers in helping him up the stairs, but none of them complain. He watches his feet, tries to make them cooperate, but they just seem to get in the way, and in the end, he just stares straight ahead, lets his brothers do all the work, and vows that he’ll make it up to them in some way.

Juice wonders where Happy is, if the man’s watching the entourage cart him up the stairs with steely, calculating eyes. He isn’t prepared to see the man’s face looming in front of him when they finally reach the top of the stairwell.

“The problem’s all taken care of, Jax,” Happy says, and he steps aside without offering a hand.

Juice can see blood splatters on Happy’s wife beater, and his left cheek, and it takes his mind far too long to put two and two together, and to realize that the ‘problem’ Happy was talking about is Archibald.

Juice isn’t sure how to feel about it, but he’s thankful that Happy took care of it. Knowing Happy, Archibald had suffered to the very last breath that he took. The fucker had only gotten what he deserved; especially if Archibald had hurt others like the man had hurt him.

Numbness overtakes Juice once they’re outside. The car he’d gone to repo is nowhere in sight – no doubt Happy had taken care of that, and Ricardo, too. Juice shivers in the cool night air, and he isn’t sure if his eyes are playing tricks on him or not, because he’d left to get the car at nine that morning, and if the sky’s anything to go by, it is now early evening, and the moon is just beginning to show herself.

“Shit.”

The curse sounds warped to his ears, and the moon –a winter white disc hanging low in the sky – dips and sways, turns herself inside out, and Juice’s eyelids flutter and then slip closed.

“He’s out.”

Juice shivers. The hands holding him upright, carrying him along, are hot against his icy cool flesh.

“Probably for the best. His back’s all torn to shit. Must be in a hell of a lotta pain.”

The voices are disjointed, like they’re being carried to him on the wind. Juice can’t connect the words with the speaker. He’s floating, and yet he’s not.

“Poor kid, not sure how he managed to hold it together for so long.”

Juice isn’t holding anything together.

“That asshole who had him was one sick fuck. He’s lucky I killed him quick.”

He’s falling apart at the seams.

“Hate to think what else he would’a done to Juice if we hadn’t found him when we did…”

Juice knows what would have happened, what might have happened, to him once he’d lost consciousness, and before Clay and the others had come for him; he won’t ever tell.

“Let’s just get him home. Have Tara take a look at him."

The voices of his family, his brothers by choice and circumstance, sound very far away. They fade in and out, sound like bees buzzing in his ear, and Juice can’t find it in himself to care that he can no longer make out the words of their ongoing conversation.

He can feel his brothers carrying him, his feet dragging across the asphalt. And, even though he doesn’t know where it is that they’re taking him, it’s a small comfort knowing that they are there, and that he’s no longer facing an uncertain Hell on his own.


	8. Is This Love?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clay contemplates his feelings for Juice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to revise this particular portion of the story, because it no longer seemed to fit with the arrangement. Hopefully it works.

Clay’s worried about Juice. He’s been worried about the younger man for most of the day, and wishes that he’d acted on his worries sooner. All the shit that’s happened to Juice rests on him. He knew that he should have gone to find Juice earlier, but he’d wanted some time away from the younger man to sort out his feelings. _Stupid._  
  
Love. That’s the word that Gemma had used when he’d tried to explain his thoughts about Juice to her. She hadn’t seemed too surprised, or upset, either. It was more of a reluctant acceptance.   
  
He’d tried to laugh it off,  because he wasn’t gay  or a faggot, or whatever the hell people were calling it nowadays, but as the day wore on, and his thoughts kept veering toward Juice, his laughter started turning his stomach, and he realized that Gemma might have a valid point. He might very well be in love with Juice. A kind of love that goes deeper than that of brother, or father and son. A love which is on par with the love that he has for Gemma.  
  
It was disconcerting, and Clay spent the bulk of the day trying to shrug it off and deny it. He thought about Gemma, of making love to her, but Juice was at the back of his mind, invading his thoughts.   
  
He was the last one down the stairs when they found the kid, and what he’d seen had almost caused him to fall down the remaining few steps. He’d felt like crying, but knew that his tears were the last thing that Juice would need. ‘This kind of thing doesn’t happen to a Son,’ he’d thought, ‘should never have happened to this Son, because Juice is like a ray of fricken’ sunshine half the damn time.'  
  
Clay doesn’t care how his actions had looked when he’d stood beside Juice and touched the back of the injured man’s neck. He’d fucked up so many things in his life trying to appear strong, mistaking that to mean that he’d needed to look like he didn’t care, and he didn’t want to fuck this up too.   
  
Whether or not he’s in love with Juice, Clay knows that he cares about him, and will be damned if he’s too much of a coward to show it when the other man needs it the most. When the kid begins to panic and starts thrashing, he leans close and does his best to offer some kind of solace to him, to draw Juice back from the darkness of his memories.  
  
For some reason, out of everything, the ropes which had bound Juice to the pool table had bothered him the most. It doesn’t even make sense, given the other indignities that Juice had suffered. Maybe it’s because of the way the ropes had cut into Juice’s wrists and made his fingers look purple and dead. It’s the unspoken threat to his livelihood - Clay knows that Juice would feel useless if he couldn’t use the computer. The boy thought that his computer abilities were the only reason the club kept him around, but it’s more than that, and Clay is going to do his damned best to show the younger man his true worth - to the club; to him.


	9. Daring to Breathe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes comfort can be found in the simplest of gestures, and from those whom we least expect it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the hc_bingo prompt: whipping/flogging, at the request of lederra who asked for Clay/Juice. She also indicated, later, wanting a story in which Clay is injured. I may tackle that at some point in time, but until then, thank you to those who've read, and especially to those who have commented as you've helped me through a difficult time in which I've questioned whether or not I should continue to write.

When he wakes next, Juice isn’t feeling any pain, and there’s sun streaming into the room through a crack in the blinds. The bed he’s lying face down in is large, the sheets smooth and silky, the mattress firm, and there’s a warm body beside him, a hand cupping the back of his neck.   
  
“Clay?” Juice’s voice is hoarse, his throat dry.   
  
Fear snakes up his spine. At first, he doesn’t understand why he’s afraid, but then he remembers – the car, Archibald, the whip...and it all comes rushing back. It’s like being hit by a freight train, and his head spins.   
  
“Juice?” Clay shifts. His body presses against Juice’s side. It’s a different, but not unwelcome, feeling, and it helps Juice push the bad memories away. “You okay?”  
  
“Yeah,” Juice says. “I’m good.”  
  
Clay rolls over and Juice misses the warmth of the other man. He reaches out, catches Clay by the shoulder, and fumbles his way down to the man’s hands with clumsy, aching fingers. They feel swollen, and he’s almost afraid to look at them.   
  
“Easy, Juice.” Clay chuckles. He squeezes Juice’s fingers lightly and Juice relaxes, finds that he can breathe again. “I’m not going anywhere.”  
  
“Thanks,” Juice says, and he draws in a shaky breath.  
  
He feels silly for needing the other man like this. He wishes that he was tough like Tig and Chibs. Or that he could push aside what happened to him as easily as Happy would be able to had the man been in his shoes. But, he isn’t tough, and he isn’t able to forget, even what he can’t remember.   
  
The words, “I don’t want to be alone,” leave his mouth before he can stop them.   
  
He mentally slaps himself, and holds his breath. He feels like a fool – needy, vulnerable, stupid. Juice tries to withdraw his hand from Clay’s, but the man tightens his grip.  
  
“I’m not going to leave you,” Clay says.   
  
He rubs a thumb across the back of Juice’s hand, brings it up in the space between them, and kisses it. His lips linger over the knuckles. And, Juice dares to breathe.  
  
 **  
**


End file.
